Line of Scrimmage
by Experimental
Summary: In this game they devised long ago, some yardage is bound to be gained, some lost. Sometimes you fight for every inch you earn. Vignettes. Kuze x Kyouya if you squint.


Line of Scrimmage

"Come to congratulate me, Ohtori-kun?"

"Not entirely. Granted, of course, our victory was impressive, but I seem to remember you running over a hundred yards in last week's game."

"Ah." Kuze can't get over his choice of words. _Our_ victory. Like he'd been out there on the field with them all along. "And here I didn't think you followed American football."

Kuze smiles cold, but not nearly as cold as Kyouya—who affects an insincere nonchalance like nobody's business in everything he does or says:

"I like to show _some_ school spirit now and then."

Of course, Kuze knows perfectly well his old rival's idea of school spirit involves blackmail and fixing competitions. "Which explains the school colors," he says.

Kyouya raises his shoulders in a slight shrug. In a purple paisley shirt and dark jeans, he's succeeded fairly well in avoiding any of the blues and oranges in the Ouran Orages' jerseys.

—o—

Football is something Kuze understands.

Ohtori Kyouya he never has been able to, even though he's known him longer, so it's easier to put him into a context he does get.

And in this game he and Kyouya have devised—perhaps more Kuze himself than Kyouya would be gentleman enough to concede—some yardage is bound to be gained, and some will be lost. Sometimes you run and ball, and fight for every inch you earn. Sometimes you throw a long pass and pray for a miracle.

Then again, sometimes you throw the ball away just to get rid of it, just so you can start over back at the line of scrimmage, or just because you're cornered and out of options. Sometimes it's just easier than thinking.

Of course, it helps if you can read what your opponent is thinking; but even though Kyouya's only mask is his glasses, somehow the transparency only extends that far, because it's never been a walk in the park guessing what he's thinking. Whether that off-hand comment was a low snipe or just an observation, or just what he's smiling so annoyingly coy about. He's way too casual for his own good, and perhaps, Kuze thinks, that's why he's tried so hard to keep this rivalry alive as long as he has, why even the offer to share a post-game orange doesn't feel like a truce. It was never meant to be one.

After all, a truce is the last thing either of them wants.

—o—

"Someone once told me eating an orange is the best way to replenish one's blood sugar after strenuous exercise."

"Gee, I wonder where you heard that."

Kyouya smiles that cool smile again that's more appropriate in his host club than here. Those not-school-colors clothes of his smell like dry cleaning fluid, clean and neutral. No unnecessary fragrances. No environmental factors either. The sweat and smell of grass in Kuze's jersey don't even stick to him. He's that good.

But he won't get the taste of the orange they share out of his mouth so easy.

The oil will stain Kyouya's fingers, his lips, the cuff of his sleeve where the juice dribbles down his wrist. Even if they're only standing shoulder to shoulder, Kuze can smell it on his breath as he exhales in the autumn air, cleaner than any detergent can leave him.

"You still prefer the rind?" Kyouya asked when he started unwrapping it, as though by some off chance something had actually changed since preschool.

"Of course. I love the taste of pesticides."

Kuze poured on the sarcasm same as always, but it was Kyouya who broke the unspoken rules they made between them more than a decade ago. He laughed.

And nearly slipped off the bar they were leaning on when Kuze gave him a shove to jog his memory. But there was hardly anyone left in the stadium below to hear him at that point, and anyway, Kyouya's laughter doesn't usually make much of a sound.

—o—

"If he's such a prick like you say, why do you care what he thinks?" Tougouin asked him in a particularly frank moment, and Kuze didn't really know how to answer. He didn't know if he _wanted_ to answer.

"Because. It's its own reward just to see him put in his place."

That was Tarumi's theory, at least, and he said it like it was obvious. What else could Kuze's reasoning be?

And even though Kuze thinks he doesn't really get it, he doesn't have any problem with the rest of his teammates believing that's what their rivalry is all about. That that was their captain's single motivating goal during the school-wide athletic competition, and the reason for his unlikely partnership with Suou. Little do they know it was their captain who forced Ohtori over the tipping point and into that competition in the first place.

Little do they know he's not doing this because he doesn't still begrudge Suou his previous victory. He just wants to beat Kyouya more.

But not because he hates him either, and that's the part no one would understand. Not really. Kanan understands better than anyone, probably, but that's why she just sighs and shakes her head at him, when he starts talking about how he's going to knock Kyouya off his high horse next. "If I didn't know better, I'd be jealous, how much you talk about him," she says.

And so like a woman, she doesn't know why they can't just be friends.

—o—

She doesn't realize that would ruin everything. Because they never wanted to be friends, he and Kyouya. They've always only been content as rivals. Not even enemies, but evenly matched opponents who can only stand one another's company when they're outsmarting each other, tackling one another verbally with all the vitriolic wit they can muster. It's the thrill of their own personal war that keeps them connected.

And he can't let up. Not for a second. Because if he does, Kuze is afraid he might find there's more to this animosity they hold between them than he cares to admit.

He manages pretty well to avoid addressing their relationship until he and Kyouya are grinning and tossing cool insults back and forth across the dining hall, and Kanan tells them, "Goodness, you two. Get a room."

His brilliant comeback dies on his lips, and his heart sinks into his stomach like watching your truest pass all day being intercepted. Like crawling back to the line of scrimmage inside the twenty with fourth and inches.

Until Kyouya dismantles the whole thing with a bow and a cool, "Age before beauty, Sempai."

There are only a couple months left before graduation, but Kuze vows he'll figure out a way to beat Kyouya yet.

—o—

_Championship Sunday, 2008_


End file.
